Lord of the Fries
by Fluxit Aqua et Sanguine
Summary: It's spoof time! Based on a friend's mis-speaking. A handsome blonde boy and his fat, loathesome companion are stuck in their place of work with nothing but each other and a group of other employees. What is one to do! Rated T for later chapters.


**A/N:** So. The idea for this sprung when one of my fellow students in AP European History accidentally said "Lord of the Fries" when referring to "Lord of the Flies". And, so, we promptly came up with the idea for this little number for extra credit in AP English XII.

There is a board game by the same title, I have recently found out (zombies and fast food?) and I claim no rights to that title, despite my use of it here, nor any to the characters and plotline of Lord of the Flies. Or, certainly, McDonald's corporation. If I had anything at all to do with them FINANCIALLY, I wouldn't be wasting my time writing this randomness. XP These chapters will, undoubtedly, be short if I continue- as always, reading and reviewing is GREATLY appreciated!

The ending to this was sewn on pretty quickly to get on before the end of the school year, but I tried. Hope you enjoy.

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_**Lord of the Fries**_

Chapter One

_The Voice of the Medium Soft Drink_

The tall, tow-headed young man pulled himself laboriously out of the pile of stone and brightly colored plastic at the edge of the store. Raising his gaze, he could see a gash in the ugly brown-tiled floor beneath his feet, and realized that he had no idea why he was there, but for the fact that he was wearing a visor, and a strange uniform that matched the garish tones of the restaurant about him. Before he could begin to reason with himself, he could hear a voice calling from across the long room, moving slowly behind the mounds of rubble and abandoned foodstuffs,

"Hey! Hey, wait up..."

There was a loud gasping behind him, and the boy turned around to see a pointless mass of wobbling flesh bounding in his direction, hastily adjusting a pair of thick glasses on his humorously large and broad nose. He seemed to be slipping on something, and it took some time before he was close enough to speak.

"Those ketchup packets... can't move a foot without slipping on them..." the new boy said with disgust, screwing up his face as he pulled several empty plastic packets from his beefy legs. He was considerably shorter than the tow-headed boy, and grotesquely obese, even by the standards of the United States of America in the year 2010.

"Where's the guy who used the loudspeaker?"

The taller boy shrugged and looked around again,

"It looks like this is some sort of decrepit restaurant. Look, there's a parking lot out there. There aren't any older people around. I can't remember anything about this place, but we're dressed the same, so-"

"But he wasn't one of us," the fat boy interrupted rudely, shaking his mop of hair quickly and looking ever more like a bloated hamster with each passing moment. "He was dressed better than us. He was our manager, or something... There were others. Some of the other boys must be around too, right?"

The blonde boy lifted his arms exasperatedly. "There might not be anyone else anywhere. Maybe we're the last people on earth." The fat boy began hyperventilating at this, and, with some resignation, the former retracted this thought for fear that the water-fowl-faced boy would burst with terror.

"I remember some now," he started again with a calmer voice. "There was a lot of shaking… the ground was unstable. Stuff began falling from shelves, people running out of the place... There must have been a really bad earthquake. We're probably stuck here."

"Stuck?" cried the large boy hysterically, his flabby hands pawing at his pocket until another half-piteous, half-horrified whine issued from his throat. "I don't have my Smart Phone... How am I supposed to get advice from my auntie without it?" Being something of a technophobe, the other shrugged again and began looking around the restaurant with his eyes narrowed. Once the bespectacled boy calmed down again, - in the space of two hours, or so, - he spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Waldo."

Waldo was still distracted, looking around the restaurant and making thoughtful observations as the other boy rambled uselessly behind him, "There has to be more of us scattered around this place... Have you seen anyone else?"

Unable to stand the incessant drivel, Waldo began running to the other end of the restaurant until his follower began squawking like an asthmatic parrot,

"Stop! Stop, I can't run... new studies by some private medical associations think that excessive running might be connected with bladder cancer!"

"I was trying to get away from you... that's _why_ I ran," Waldo muttered under his breath, but it was no use. He was stuck with this pile of fat until they managed to get out, and, anyway, maybe all of this pointless information could be of some help to them sometime during their time trapped in the restaurant. Through keen observation of the prefix "Mc" at the beginning of practically every item on the menu hanging by some open electrical chords from behind the counter, and by finally taking off his visor, Waldo realized that they were trapped in a McDonald's Restaurant- and he had been an employee, probably a new one, based on his memory, along with this boy and others. Out the window, he could see the prone figure of a more well-dressed man standing outside, his legs crushed by the debris from a fallen tree.

The fat boy was busying himself with trying to get to the unspoiled food, and Waldo took time to observe him. He guessed that he would have been a soft-eyed, perhaps even charming young man were it not for all the weight. Unfortunately, through the rolls of flesh surrounding his face and frame, Waldo couldn't imagine he would be able to distinguish this boy's face from a bunch of over-filled pink balloons, if balloons wore two-inch thick glasses and were capable of having bad hair days.

Waldo just couldn't listen to the boy's gasping on about how awful the running was for him, and stood as he saw some shapes in the distance, perhaps twelve feet away,

"There!" he screamed, pointing directly in the face of a startled dark-haired boy who wasn't standing much more than an arm's length away from him. He turned to the large one and spoke in a stage whisper, "I'll expect we'll want to know their names, and make a list."

"I don't care what they call me," sighed the squat boy, "so long as they don't call me what they called me at the McDonald's Training Seminar."

"What's that?"

"'Ducky'."

Waldo burst out laughing, and began shrieking the name "Ducky" at the top of his lungs while Ducky and the group of unruffled-looking boys in dusty uniforms watched him, confused and disapproving.

"No...- come on, Waldo, I asked you not to..."

"Sucks to what _you_ want!" Waldo laughed maniacally, "I'm far more physically attractive than you! People can forgive almost _anything_ I do, and do _whatever _I want, just because I'm tall and have got blonde hair and big brown eyes! No one cares what _you_ think, Ducky, you sack of lard."

"So long as you don't tell the others..." Both boys were under the impression that the group watching them from a stone's throw away was completely oblivious to the conversation at hand, and proceeded as such. Waldo began walking around the place and started climbing onto the rubble pile, looking back when Ducky didn't follow,

"Come on, don't you want to climb?"

"No, no, my Smart Phone always told me that your joints-"

"Sucks to your Smart Phone!" Waldo never felt so daring as he did in these moments, climbing around an abandoned McDonald's with the best target for schoolyard-type bullying there ever was. "I never had a phone, or an MP3 player, or Walkman, or anything fancy like that. My Dad wouldn't let me have them."

Ducky, if possible, colored even more in the face.

"My dad's dead... and my mom..." Waldo proceeded to ignore Ducky again for the time being, and began climbing down the pile of rocks without a bit of care. He only started listening again when Ducky was being so morbid that he wanted to scream,

"Everyone's dead. They don't know we're in here, an' we're going to starve..."

"Only if we let you eat the way _you_ usually do," Waldo jibbed back with a roll of his dark eyes, and he gazed over at the still-unmoving group of uniformed boys with his pale brow furrowed. "How many of them do you think there are?"

"I dunno."

"What's that?" Waldo's eyes had fallen on the drink dispenser and the cups next to it. He came over and picked up one of the "MEDIUM" labeled paper cylinders and gazed at it as though he'd never seen a thing in the world like it.

"I think it's some kind of sieve or something," Ducky ejaculated brilliantly.

"No, no, it's a cup. We can use this to call the guys over here," Waldo called excitedly. Scrambling up on to a table, he scratched a hole on the bottom of the cup and began to make mad noises that undulated in pitch until he was able to get the group of exasperated young men to walk the five feet to where he stood.

"All right, let's get it all together," Waldo implored with a calming gesture, raising his arms before the group. "Names?"

Each member of the group yelled his name simultaneously to the others, except a short, slight boy with a birthmark on his face the color of old, crusted ketchup.

"Take that down, all right, Ducky?" the self-proclaimed leader called with a sickening note of arrogance. "We've got to eat!"

And so, the reckless young men began throwing frozen foodstuffs into the fryer and whooping each time the oil sputtered and nearly burned anyone within a seven-foot radius. They gorged themselves for hours, until the building began to shake as it had the day before- an aftershock.

_"RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNAH!"_ Waldo cried dramatically, making an attempt at running in slow motion as the rest of the crowd had already flown past him into the men's bathroom.

It was hours before they climbed out of the rubble again to look around, and, not surprisingly, Ducky spoke. Waldo listened with a due sense of exasperation.

"Where's that kid?" Everyone looked around, wondering what exactly he could mean by "that kid" when there were multitudes of "kids" surrounding him in that moment. Ducky sighed, "I mean the one with the stain on his face. Where's he gone?"

As they turned to come back to the front of the restaurant, the deep fryer was spluttering ominously, and a pair of sneakers slipped on a pile of ketchup packets lay tellingly before it.

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**A/N:** I apologise if the continuity isn't correct- I'm working off of memory here. XP

...Reviews, please? 8D I'd love to hear some constructive criticism for this, if I can, this being one of the first serious comedic bits I've put on - and certainly my first writing for Lord of the Flies.


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